The Last Days of Max Payne Part Three
by Pat Taylor
Summary: ... The Last Stand. Max's crusade hurtles towards an explosive end. As the fate of New York stands on the brink, he is forced to make an impossible decision. Does he choose to save the life of the woman he loves, or redemption?
1. Prelude

**The Last Days of Max Payne**

**Part Three: The Last Stand**

**Prelude**

I blinked out of consciousness, my head bloated and foggy. I felt like hurling.

I was sat in Bravura's office, back at the precinct, but everything felt wrong. Everything felt like it was laden with doom. Through the sealed blinds the sky was a fiery red, like it was the end of the world or something. Bravura's rusty fan hummed a single death note.

"It's madness," Bravura said, slamming a hand on the desk. "The mayor wants us off the case. Contacted me this morning."

I tried to warn Bravura of what was about to happen. I tried to talk. But my tongue was all tied up at the back of my throat and my neck felt like sandpaper. All that came out was a strangled, choking click.

"Look at this!" he cried, pointing to a fresh newspaper on the desk. "Some hack who wrote one of the first Miasma articles, found dead! Shot leaving his apartment, reckon it was a drive-by. Madness!"

Behind him, straddling the windows, were pictures of the two state senators. And as I watched in horror, the picture of Senator West winked in the blood-red light and his wide politician's grin turned into a leering shark smile.

"I'm sorry, Payne," Bravura continued. "But you're off the case. We're all off the case. The whole city, going freaking…"

The door slammed open. Bullets, flying past my head like fire. Bravura screaming, jittering and then slumping dead. I didn't have to turn around to know what would be waiting. That shark smile.

"I think he's said a little too much," Troy Novak chuckled. Behind him in the precinct I could hear screaming and gunfire. "I think you've all seen too much. Especially you, Payne." He holstered the smoking gun and burst out into hysterical laughter. "But do you want to know the truth, Payne? Shall I give you the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the goddamn truth? Isn't that what you want, Payne?"

Tittering madly, he reached behind his neck with one hooked hand. I winced, choking back a scream. The crowning horror. I knew what was coming. He tore back his face, and as the face beneath revealed itself, I could hold it back no longer and the scream exploded, filling my head, distorting the nightmare land around me.

It was me.

"How about that, hey, Maxie?" my double chuckled. "That's a big ten-four, huh? Bet you won't see that on Ripley's Believe it or Not. I'm you, buddy. We killed everyone in the precinct. We killed Bravura. Hell, we even killed that pretty piece of ass Sax."

I fell out of the seat. I turned and ran.

The office fell away behind me. I ran down a narrow wooden corridor, the sky above me all flames, but the corridor ahead seemed to stretch on further, and no matter how fast I ran I couldn't move. And my double, myself, was gaining on me. Shouting after me.

"This is just you, isn't it, Max?" he yelled. "Trying to run away from yourself. You lie to yourself that you're doing it to get revenge, that you're making the world a better place. But you're just trying to shake me off, aren't you? I'm your rage, Max. I'm the voice telling you to kill 'em all, look what they did to you, why should you owe them anything? You can't escape me, Max!"

I felt cold hands on my shoulders, and then he fell into me, all fiery rage, and I woke up in a dark room.

There was a projection screen in front of me. A short film was running.

It was Mona. She was sat in a dark room, tied to a chair, with a white spotlight shining on her face. She was wearing a black bra and jeans, and was soaked in cold sweat. Standing over her like grinning demons were Mack Luther and Senator West. West was holding a hypodermic needle like a dagger.

"Found this one snooping around the Miasma facility," Luther said. "Tell you the truth, sir, I couldn't keep the boys hands off of her." He broke off into wild demon cackles.

Senator West's grim frown didn't budge. "How much did she see?"

"Enough," Luther replied. "Enough to incriminate AvaMed. But your secret's still safe."

"Not good enough," West snapped. "If they're close to knowing AvaMed are behind Miasma, it won't be long until they reach me. We're going to have to put the plan into operation soon."

"And what about that precinct? That Payne guy?"

"I've taken care of it. I've got George Desoto on the case."

Luther giggled. "I'd hate to be in their shoes right now," he said. "Listen, boss, I've got to split. We're testing the C-Strain today."

He grabbed Mona's face with his beefy fingers and squeezed her sweat-soaked cheeks. "See you round, pretty lady. And your pain has only just begun."

As he left the room, West clutched the needle tight.

"As for you," he said to Mona. "This is the C-Strain of my precious virus. It'll take effect in a few hours. Consider it your death sentence for treason."

He plunged the needle deep into her arm.

As I watched the reel burnt up, the flame spreading from the needle, and the room was filled with hazy white light, and suddenly I was standing in a white nothing world.

Michelle was there, on my right, looking like an old Virgin Mary statue, all flowing golden hair and white robes. In her arms she clutched our child, and it smiled up at me like a cherub. God, she was so beautiful.

And on my left was Mona Sax, her black hair waves around her angel's face, wearing a long black dress like a Raphael Madonna. Her feet were bare.

"Max," she whispered, her voice like a siren's call.

"Max," Michelle echoed.

They both reached out, and I was torn, half of me heading for each of the women.

"You got to choose, Max!" my double screamed. "Choose between them! The old life or the new, what's it going to be, Max?"

Somehow I reached into my pocket, although it felt like great hands were holding me back, and reached for my Beretta.

"NO!" I heard myself scream, and I raised the gun to my head.

Pulled the trigger.

There was a horrible scream in my head, and I felt all the anger, all the hate and venom explode. As I watched my double exploded into black glitter and fell to the floor.

Around me the white world was fading, Mona and Michelle fading with it, and I was left alone in the darkness. Above my head was a single white square of blinding light, like sunlight through grey clouds.

Redemption, I thought, and the thought made me smile.

I walked towards it.

You did real good, kid, I heard Bravura say, from a thousand miles off.

Redemption.

I stepped into the light.


	2. Chapter One

**PART THREE: THE LAST STAND**

**Chapter One: Jesus Christ Pose**

I was woken up by a splash of cold water to the face.

It took a while for my puffy, swollen eyes to adjust to my surroundings, but for a horrible moment I thought I was still in the nightmare, and I'd fallen into some cold hell with smiling demons watching over me. I felt sick, used up, weak. My arms felt like they'd been stretched the length of Fifth Avenue. I'd thrown up.

I was topless, my shirt lying in a dirty pile in the corner of the room. They'd tied up my arms in a Jesus Christ pose, suspending me by my wrists with tight aching wire. I was in a cold stone wine cellar, the only light a blinding spotlight on my face. My chest had bruised up and the back of my throat stung.

Shapes moved beyond the spotlight. One was huge, a monster, invisible in the darkness. The nearest man, smaller but still imposing, was a face I'd seen on billboards and newspaper front covers across the city. Senator Nathan West.

In real life he didn't look any different – slicked back white hair, perfect smile, fiery blue eyes. He wore a black suit with a long white overcoat covering him like a robe. There was a crucifix hanging around his neck.

"Time to wake up, Mr Payne," the senator said, all of the politician's fake sincerity and pleasantry lost. His real voice was grim, soul-less, the voice of death itself.

I shook the cold water off my face. Goosebumps were rising on my arm. I shivered.

"You've caused us a hell of a lot of trouble," West continued. "You and that Sax woman. Meddled where you weren't welcome. Seen things that weren't of your concern."

"Sorry, chief," I sneered, my voice weak and strained. "Hope I didn't spoil your re-election chances."

I would have expected a beating, a flash of rage. Instead Senator West's snarl turned into a wild grin, and somehow that was worse. "There won't be any more elections after tonight," he said, his voice completely devoid of emotion. "No more politicians, either. None of it. It all ends tonight. All of it."

I thought back to what Grant had said. He's gone mad… stark raving mad. I shuddered. God, Desoto had been right.

He continued unabated. "You're getting front row seats for the Apocalypse, Maxie. The end of everything. We've had famine with the hot summer and the crop failures in the Midwest, we've had war in the Middle-East, we've had the Miasma plague, and tonight the fourth horseman will ride. Death."

"You've lost it," I said blankly. "Lost it completely."

"A sinful degenerate like you wouldn't understand, Payne," West sighed, but that grin hadn't budged. It made me feel sick. "You see, the nuns who raised me told me once that I was special. God had charged me with a great task. It took a long time to work it out, but lately it all made sense.

'I realised one day that we are at the end of days, and New York city is our Babylon. The streets run rampant with sexual deviance, murder, foul crimes. The people have turned away from God to pursue their own hedonistic existence. And I realised that if mankind is to survive, a great flood is needed. An almighty apocalypse. A plague on humanity.

'In a few hours my virus will have infected people in every major city on the planet, and I am in possession of the only vaccine. I have Mr Novak to thank for that, and for bringing you in where Desoto failed. And for giving you this chance to watch as the greatest city in the world falls into chaos, and the rest follows suit. Then the Rapture will begin. The chosen of New York city will join me aboard my private yacht, where we will watch the world end from safety, and prepare for the creation of a new civilisation. To cease mankind's drift from God."

I could barely believe what I was hearing. Just when you think it can't get any worse, it all falls down again, and you realise there's no real line between real life and your nightmares. It takes a hell of a man to keep his sanity when that happens. I was beginning to fear for mine.

"You've got a pretty big ego for a former Inner Circle lackey," I said.

The smile didn't fade. "Nice presumption, Payne, but horribly wrong, I'm afraid. Those stupid old men were the most important part of my little plan. Miasma is their child. One of a whole batch of biological weapon prototypes invented back in the Cold War, black ops they created for the government to avoid irritating international conventions. All were scrapped when the Berlin Wall came down, but they kept all the files in archives for me to uncover when the idiots decided to take their pathetic bickering to the next level and wipe each other out. All it took was for me to take their file and hand it over to AvaMed to put into production."

"And the human test subjects?"

"The homeless, the desolate. Prostitutes. People no-one would miss."

I sighed. "You're sick."

West shrugged. "Was Noah sick? I'm just doing God's bidding, Mr Payne. I had AvaMed distribute the virus in the worst parts of the city, targeting the sinful and the weak. I am doing this city a great service in destroying it."

"You'll never get away with it," I said, hopelessly. "People are closing in on you, getting wise to what's going on. Sax knew about the AvaMed facility. People aren't going to let the deaths of an entire police precinct go by…"

"People will do what I tell them!" West suddenly snapped. "I run this city! Me!"

He turned away, adjusting his overcoat, and turned to the monstrous shadow next to him.

"Scipio," he said calmly. "Make Mr Payne bleed." He turned back to me as he walked through the door. "You are going to die, Mr Payne. And you are going to die slowly, knowing that you failed Sax and the whole city. And I will make sure that you're watching as the world collapses around you. Now if you'll excuse me, I must attend to the party on my yacht. Good night, Mr Payne."

He stepped through the door and left me alone with Scipio.

I'd heard about Scipio. He'd been a decorated war hero in the first Gulf War, the sole survivor of an attack on a checkpoint, where he managed to take down all the attackers single-handed. However, it came at a cost – his right eye, which was covered with a black eye-patch. He returned to America to commendation and medals, but he soon found out that he couldn't shake off the adrenaline rush he'd had in the Middle East. He turned to drink and drugs, losing his home, and was eventually rescued by the wonderful, forgiving Senator West, who instated him as his personal bodyguard. Neat move. A giant pushing seven foot, and just as wide, Scipio was a tank of a man. West had received no trouble.

And now I was alone and helpless in this dark cellar with him, this huge monster of a man, who was grinning with his gold capped teeth and reaching for a large two-by-four.

No, not alone. He had three goons with him, three of West's hired thugs, all armed with baseball bats and planks.

They came at me fast and without mercy. Blow after blow, shattering a rib, bruising my chest and arms. A baseball bat came down hard on my eye and pain exploded in my head, the eye sealing itself shut beneath the swelling, stars flying past in the darkness. Another two-by-four, laced with nails, tore a streak down my chest and blood flowed down over my trousers. The bat shattered a tooth and warm, hot blood flowed down my neck.

By the end I slumped forward, barely conscious, and Scipio's looming, grinning figure stood over me.

"Mr West wants you kept alive," he chuckled, his voice sounding like it was coming through a wind tunnel. "So I'm going to leave you now to recover, and when you're almost up and about, I'll be back for some more."

It took all my strength, but I raised my head and spat a huge goblet of blood in his face. I grinned at him through my broken mouth.

He snarled and wiped the blood off with a handkerchief. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a blade like an old barber's – stubby and curved. He raised it to my right cheek. I winced, flinching away, and he brought it down in a sweeping arc.

The pain was incredible. Blood flowed down my face in a river, pooling in my shirt collar. Permanent scar, I thought bitterly.

"Goodnight, Mr Payne," Scipio said, and as I blacked out he left the room.

To be continued…


	3. Chapter Two

**PART THREE: THE LAST STAND**

**_Chapter Two: Goodnight, Mr Payne_**

I woke up maybe an hour later, my whole body aching, used up, and in agony. My right eye was blind to the world, the swelling a painful grey throb. The scar on my face pulsed angrily. My broken rib was a lance of fire stabbing me in the heart. My head felt on the brink of explosion. None of my muscles worked.

Someone had cut me down and left me on a bare mattress in the cellar. A lot of good that had done me. My arms and legs were useless. I'd thrown up again.

Come on, Max, a little voice in my head whispered. Push it back. Stand up. Once you get some painkillers down your neck you'll be fine. If Mona's still alive, there's still a chance to save her. West said the vaccine was in his possession, which meant it could be here in his mansion. It's just a case of getting out.

Biting down hard on my broken teeth, tears swelling up in my eyes, I pushed myself up. Every muscle screamed in protest, and I fell back down with a thud. The scars on my chest flared up briefly.

Come on, damn it. Move, old man. Think of Mona.

I pushed up again, a scream of pain growling at the back of my throat, and slumped off the side of the bed, lying on the stone cold floor in a heap, shuddering and crying weakly. You got me, West. You got me good.

My jacket was on the other side of the room, a small black heap near an ancient oak wine barrel. Just a few yards, but to me a million miles.

I started to crawl, dragging myself along on my elbows, working my muscles gradually. Getting used to moving again. My elbows and wrists throbbed protests. Damn it, Max. Come on. It's nothing. Think of Mona.

I collapsed on the floor, just a yard or so away from the jacket, sweat standing out on my forehead. I wanted to lie here and cry, forgetting about Mona, forgetting about getting out of here, just wanting to wait here and die. It'd be better for everything. But there was no silencing that little voice in my head telling me to keep going, because otherwise it's all going to go to waste. You might have talked big in front of West about how it was all over, but that was all BS and you knew it. When I died the whole thing died with me – all the secrets, all of West's scheme. When I died, West won.

As long as I could stand I wasn't about to let that happen.

I reached out with one arm, stretching my tendons to the very edge, my fingertips brushing against the edge of the jacket. Come on, damn it. Just a little further. I pushed myself along the stone floor, grazing my sore chest, and hooked my finger in a fold. Then I dragged the jacket towards me, ignoring the pain now, focussing on nothing but that sweet, blissful feel of victory.

I fumbled greedily through the inner pockets, praying that they hadn't taken everything away. My guns were gone, along with my wallet.

But there, tucked away in the recesses of an inner pocket, was a small plastic vial of painkillers, the painkillers I'd stolen from an apartment near my own a thousand years ago. I yanked off the lid, peering inside. Just a few left at the bottom.

I choked them back, ignoring the stinging medicinal taste freezing the back of my throat, and lay back on the cold stone floor waiting for that comforting buzz to turn all the fire in my veins to a gentle soothing hum. I closed my eyes.

I never had a chance to recover. There were footsteps coming down the stone staircase outside the bolted cellar door. Mumbling voices.

Wincing at the agony, I stood up and pushed myself up against the wall behind the door as two men unlocked it and stepped inside.

"Boy, I'd hate to be in this guy's shoes when he wakes up," the guy on my right said as he stepped into the room. Blinding light from the corridor blasted through the door, and for a second the two men were nothing but shadows to my aching operational eye. I could clearly see the Desert Eagle he held in one hand and the steel pail of water he held in the other.

"Yeah, Scipio says he's got something special lined up for him," the other said, chuckling. "Almost feel sorry for the bastard."

"I wouldn't. Not if you'd heard what he's done. He's getting what's coming to him."

They stopped dead in their tracks, standing just past the doorway.

"The hell?" the nearest guy to me said, and I took my chance.

As the painkillers took effect, I leapt forward, grabbing the goon by the wrist and swinging him in front of me. His colleague cried out, whipped out a Desert Eagle, and in a wild fit of panic pumped three bullets into his friend, who slumped dead in my arms.

I forced the Desert Eagle out of his limp hand as he slumped to my feet and leapt out of the way of the next volley of bullets, shooting the last goon in the gut as I fell. He collapsed in agony and I ended his life with a bullet to the head.

Adrenaline roared through my veins. Behind me the door was wide open.

Time to leave.

I pulled on my dirty shirt, wincing as it shrugged against my wounds, and pulled my jacket over that. I stole a few spare clips from the dead men, and their guns, and left the room, shutting the door carefully after me.

Beyond the basement was another world. An ornate stone and marble corridor, all lit with ambient lighting. Priceless paintings adorning the walls. This was West's mansion, all old money and impeccable lineage.

I climbed up the staircase, enjoying the life running through my stiff muscles again, riding the adrenaline. West's mansion would be crawling with his goons, all heavily armed. And above them all, Scipio, the Senator's right-hand man, and a monster. I had my work cut out for me.

The staircase led to a long marble corridor with a neat series of mosaics set into the floor. Tall windows looked out over the Senator's grounds, now shrouded in darkness apart from the occasional bright white spotlights. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling.

And there was a man walking down the corridor, talking loudly into a cell-phone.

"Hello?" he cried. "Alberto? Mickey? Hey, guys, this isn't funny. I'm getting pretty scared up here. Guys? Hello?"

In his other hand he clumsily clutched a Beretta. Might have shot himself in the foot if he ever had the chance. I wasn't about to give it to him.

I stepped out into the corridor, a dark avenging angel, all flowing dark leather and wild fury.

He fell backwards, went to cry out, and then fell silent as a bullet blew out the top of his head, splattering his brains and blood across the expensive tiles. He fell backwards with smoke rising from his shattered skull. The cell-phone shattered on the floor.

I stole his clip and made my way into the heart of the mansion.

To be continued…


	4. Chapter Three

**PART THREE: THE LAST STAND**

**_Chapter Three: The American Nightmare_**

I'd blown it big time. Still weak, still giddy, as good as dead. Nothing on my side but the gun, and next to their firepower I might as well have been armed with a Super-Soaker and a bottle of Perrier.

I'd made my way along the maze of tiled marble corridors that interlaced West's vast gothic manor, stumbling helplessly, my head swimming, my legs weak and fatigued. I'd met little resistance. So far, I figured, no-one had noticed I was out. If I was really lucky, I'd make it to West's office and be gone with the vaccine before any of them noticed. Back to Mona and then off into the sunset to safety.

No such luck.

I'd turned a corner into a short corridor with a huge pair of double wooden doors, flanked by a couple of marble pillars. There'd been a single goon, a shaky little rookie with an automatic twice the size of him. It should have been easy to bring him down.

Instead I'd turned the corner, fired the shot… and missed.

It socked home in the door behind him.

That was all he needed. As I lumbered into view, gun raised ready to get the next shot in, he had turned around and burst through the doors, screaming, "PAYNE! Holy Jesus, guys, it's Payne! PAYNE'S OUT!"

From behind the double-doors voices echoed back and fore. There was an army behind those doors, all fully armed, all now aware that I was a free man.

And now I stood on the other side, feeling sick, shaking like a dog, knowing full well the whole damn game was up. Soon as I stepped through that door they'd punch me so full of holes I'd look like a personal organiser.

Only one thing for it. I'd come too far to run away now.

Socked the bullets into the gun.

Stepped through the door.

"THERE!" a voice screamed.

There was an explosion of gunfire. I was in the main entrance hall of the manor, two storeys high, and both sides littered with fully armed goons. Behind me the wooden double-doors were blown to splinters, spraying flaming hunks of wood out into the marble corridor.

I rolled behind a marble vase stand, its piece probably priceless, and winced as gunfire shattered the ancient vase to so much jagged porcelain.

I had to fight back. I had to. Or I'd die.

I stood up, clutching the stolen Desert Eagles, and returned fire. Bullets ripped through one of the goons on the upper floor and he fell through the wooden barrier, hitting the tiles below with a meaty thud. Another behind him fell to his knees as a bullet took a line of flesh off the side of his mouth, splattering blood to the ground.

As I fell to my knees again, bullets whispering past my face, I let a few pot shots off into the nearest goon. I just caught a bullet rip through his chin and throat, shattering his spinal column and sending him slumping to the floor like a sack of meat.

The onslaught continued as I pushed up against the stand, the air around my head thick with smoke and cordite, the air a screaming symphony, a roar, a deafening scream.

And something else. Footsteps.

I glanced briefly behind me. Three adventurous goons were approaching, keeping me hidden by continuing to open fire on my spot. The marble stand was on the brink of collapsing.

No other choice but to turn around and face them.

I spun round again and opened fire like a madman, driving them back. The nearest goon gave me a look of utter horror as gunfire blew his intestines out through his back and he fell backwards, hitting a friend who registered unbelieving horror before a bullet terminated him as well.

The final goon continued firing, stepping aside nonchalantly as his comrades slumped dead to the floor, focussed now on nothing but my death. There were others, too – footsteps slamming hard down the stairs. Were they all about to fall for the same trick?

I slammed the marble arch backwards, using what little strength I had.

It hit the floor hard, breaking tiles. I spun round, shooting the nearest guard six times. The bullets ripped through his jittering body and wounded another goon behind him, his gun firing a brief coda into the air before he hit the tiles.

I was open now. I had to move, fast.

I ran for the centre of the room, firing now on nothing but instinct.

Around me guards fell in a giddying rain, bodies hitting the floor like rain, bullets flying past my head in a dream. I could have lived forever on those few seconds, slowing down, slamming hard on the trigger, watching man after man fall, watching the blood and the cordite and the smoke create a hideous fog.

As I came down, I fell to my knees in the centre of the room and threw up. Both gun barrels had clicked back nothing but dry emptiness. I'd emptied the clips.

The silence in the bright hall was deafening. At the top of the stairs, staring down at me over the corpse-littered floor with steely defiance, was a portrait of Senator West himself.

As I sat there on my knees in front of him I almost felt like laughing. Who was I kidding? This man, this baby-hugging millionaire politician with his loyal church support and his Young Republican fan-club, was busy putting the end of the world into action, and I was the only thing standing in his way – a stone-cold killer, a washed-up former alcoholic with nothing left but the gun. The American Nightmare come true.

I pushed up to my feet, fighting the urge to be sick again. The painkillers were starting to wear off. I could feel the first pangs of stinging pain in my wounds, brief flares that would be a prelude to what would follow them. I had to find something, anything to stave off the pain.

I staggered to the nearest guard, a young man with a neat goatee, a young man who might have gone on to be a doctor and to have saved lives, and plunged my hands into his blood-sticky pockets. Empty bar the few things that had probably meant everything to his short life – house keys, car keys, photo of his wife, driver's license. Worth nothing to me now.

It didn't have to be like this, I thought, searching another guard. I'd never wanted to kill these men. Fate had a pretty sick sense of humour. She figured it'd be a laugh to take away everything that had ever meant a damn to me, thrown me a gun and let me figure the rest out myself.

I'd have given anything to have been in bed with Michelle that night, staring at the smooth curves of her pale back, listening to her gentle breathing. With nothing to worry about but the mortgage and the groceries. No luck. None at all.

I promised myself I'd make it up to her. Promised her that, on my own life, I'd do anything to be redeemed for not saving her. Anything.

I hit gold on the fifth guard I searched. A small plastic beaker of simple painkillers, maybe a few the late guard had stashed for his headaches or a little toothache. With most of his guts painting the floor I doubted he'd have much use for it now.

I choked them back and walked to the stairs.

Raised my gun.

Put a bullet in the Honourable Senator West's grinning face.

And promised myself that this would end tonight, and on Michelle's grave that I wouldn't let him kill another. Not one more.

To be continued…


	5. Chapter Four

**PART THREE: THE LAST STAND**

**_Chapter Four: A Place Called Armageddon_**

The second floor corridor snaked around to a small lobby round the front of the manor. They brought me to a pair of high wooden doors with an ornate stone gargoyle carved over the top. I figured it was meant to look gothic and worn, a neat historical addition to the overall look. I thought its dead eyes and wide open grin just looked scary.

One hand on my gun, I gently pushed open the door and stepped into blackness.

I'd walked into Senator West's home office, the seat of power. From this room the Senator made his phone calls and pulled the strings that ran the city. This was the real heart of New York, the throne room of an evil empire.

Through the large French windows I could see a small stone balcony, beyond which lay the grounds shrouded in darkness and, beyond that, a row of streetlights marching on to the bright lights and towering skyscrapers of the city. In my mind I could see the Senator stood on the balcony in the dusk light, nursing a glass of Cognac and watching with a satisfied grin as those lights dimmed, chuckling as the shadow of Miasma marched through the avenues and alleyways.

Tonight, however, he'd been far too busy for that. Candles covered every surface, fiery little glows like stars. White candle wax, turned a grubby yellow, had trickled down all the surfaces like blood. In the centre of the room, on the old oak desk, an ancient black Bible lay open to Revelations.

Nathan West had gone mad, alright.

In meticulous red pen he'd underlined several lines, all talking of the end of the world and the coming of God. The first line that caught my eye read, '…And he will take them to a place called Armageddon.'

I slammed it shut. Not tonight. I'd seen enough of this crazy religious crap to know that the scariest part of it all was someone taking it seriously – most of all one of the most powerful men in the country, standing on the cusp of the Presidency. Most of all, someone with connections to a group like the late Inner Circle.

It was then that my eye caught something else. A small black attaché case, sat inconspicuously under the table. I grabbed it. Flicked open the lock. And, for the first time in a long while, found myself breaking into a grin.

Sat in the soft plush briefcase interior, in its own moulded holder, was the Miasma vaccine.

My quest was almost over. I had the chalice. And now it was time to get the hell out of here, whilst Mona still had time.

I slammed the lock shut, turned to head out the door, and felt a grip like iron on my shoulders yank me backwards. The briefcase hit the floor hard, skittering away beneath the table, and the grip moved up to my neck, squeezing like a python.

"That doesn't belong to you, Mr Payne," a voice rasped in my ear, hot breath tickling my face. It was Scipio. "That is the property of Mr West."

I was thrown hard to the floor, whatever air I still had in my stomach choked out. Red lights flashed before my eyes in the darkness. My head felt on the brink of explosion. Veins throbbed painfully in my neck.

You break out of this, Max, or you're dead. Come on.

I elbowed Scipio hard in the gut, but it was like slamming into a rock. He barely registered it.

Instead he pushed me forward, and I felt the strength draining out of my muscles, and my head spin wildly. One last chance. No strength at all. All drained. Just have to drive him back, one last push…

Using the weight of the table, I shoved backwards hard, feeling pain roll up through my arm muscles. Scipio stumbled backwards, knocking a candle to the floor. The carpet beneath us burst into wild flames.

Scipio screamed, releasing me for a second, backing away from the roaring flames that were swallowing up the office around us. They rolled up over the table, catching the velvet curtains, filling the office with choking heat and smoke.

I rested a second, rubbing my sore neck, sucking in oxygen, and then grabbed the briefcase.

I leapt through the French glass windows, standing out on the stone balcony whilst behind me West's office descended into flames. It was a short drop to the floor. A few bushes would cushion my fall. I grabbed the edge of the balcony.

Scipio leapt through the windows like a demon, trailing fire behind him, his face a grimace of rage and anger. He was a monster hell-bent on death and destruction. A nasty streak of blood had risen on one seared cheek. Glass flew out in all directions.

I fell to the side as he descended on me, hands like clamps clutching my squirming body, throwing me against the wall. I felt fire lance across my chest over the broken rib, felt the air knocked out of me.

He ran at me like a bull.

I leapt up, grabbing the lip of the tiled roof, heaving myself up. I felt the whisper of his fingertips on the soles of my shoes as I scrambled up the tiles. They slid away beneath my grip, shattering on the balcony below. Above my spinning head the roof stretched up to a curve and beyond that the stars flew out wildly. Guiding the way to freedom. If I could reach the top of the roof, I'd be safe. I could make it.

One grazed hand, the one still clutching the briefcase, grabbed the ridge, squeezing tight. Holding on for dear life.

Scipio had scrambled up after me, as fanatical as a religious cultist. He wasn't about to give up, not now. Not when he owed so much to Senator West.

One arm grabbed my leg and yanked hard enough to tear it out, if he'd wanted to. I felt his nails dig deep enough into my shins to draw blood.

Desperate now to escape him, I reached for my Beretta with my spare hand. He was struggling for grip with his one hand, tearing at me with the other. As I turned to stare at him, his one eye was wild with blood-lust. I pointed my gun at his face and pulled the trigger.

He screamed as the bullet caught him in his one operational eye, letting go of his grip and tumbling down the tiles to the balcony below. As I watched he smashed through it like a meteor, trailing rubble and dust with him as he descended into the roaring flames below.

Goodnight, Scipio, I thought, and slumped half-conscious over the edge of the roof.

Suddenly the bell tower in the centre of the roof, an old white Victorian tower with a gold clock that would have looked acceptable in any civic centre, collapsed into the house with a titanic roar. Fire rolled up wildly in the rubble and a good portion of the roof slid into the flames.

I had to leave now. West's manor was burning up.

Wincing at the agony, clutching the briefcase, I crawled to the edge of the roof. I gently let myself down to a small window box and then leapt into the bushes around the outside of the house. The shock hurt for a moment, the branches of the bush left a thousand small scars and lacerations, but I was alive and standing.

And I had the vaccine.

Behind me another wall collapsed and the flames rode high into the summer night. Men were fleeing into the shadows of the ground. The seat of power was collapsing in fire.

I stood up, brushed myself off, and disappeared into the night.

To be continued…


	6. Chapter Five

**PART THREE: THE LAST STAND**

**_Chapter Five: Something Good To Die For_**

Just five hours ago I'd stood here on the hospital steps.

The thought hit home hard. I'd walked out of there with a few scratches, maybe a little nervous, thinking I'd be gone for an hour or so and then I'd be back in Mona's arms.

Now five hours and a whole lifetime later I was back, a mangled mess, giddy with pain and blood loss and tiredness, wanting nothing more than to be leaving this city with Mona.

But I'd made a promise on the grave of my dead family that I would stop the evil that infected New York before it killed any more. And now, standing on the steps of the hospital, in the glow of the light, with the briefcase that could end it all, I faced the most difficult decision of my life.

Mona. Or redemption.

I stepped up to the front desk.

A pretty young receptionist stared up at me in horror. "Sir, are you…"

"Sax!" I cried. "Mona Sax! Where is she?"

The receptionist stared at me blankly for a few seconds, briefly shook her head and then looked down at her computer terminal. She clicked a few keys and then said, without looking up, "Ward six, Main Theatre."

I thanked her and began to walk off. I heard her call over my shoulder that I needed medical help and that she could get me a doctor, but I wasn't hearing her. Instead I was hearing hope, like an angel's song. Mona was alive. Main theatre meant she'd been through triage and probably come out worse, but even if she was on death's door there was still that tiny slither, that glowing light in the clouds.

There was still hope.

The hospital corridors spun out around me like a gruesome ghost house labyrinth. Bodies lay slumped against walls, pale and sick. Occasionally a nurse would lie passed out from exhaustion. The weeping and the pleas for help melded into one awful symphony.

You hold the key, Max, a voice in my head whispered. You can end all this.

I silenced it. No. Mona was still alive. I had no other choice, no more time to reconsider my options. I was going to use that vaccine to save Mona.

You swore on your family's grave, Max. Your family's grave.

"Shut up!" I cried out into the cold emptiness.

An old man stared up at me with red-rimmed eyes, and then stared back into his lap. I mumbled an apology and carried on walking, knowing that the briefcase in my hands was heavier than ever.

And then I arrived at Ward Six, and I slid back the doors to the main theatre, a dim silent room with nothing but the scalpels and medical equipment keeping a silent vigil on the slumped shape in the bed.

Mona was dying. There was no mistaking it now.

Miasma had worn away her beauty. She looked a hundred years old. Her skin, white as cold ice, was so tight against her that she looked almost skeletal. Two low-lidded, red-rimmed eyes stared at me blankly, scrutinising me, wondering if I was real or not. Her hair lay lank across her face, spindly and dry. As I watched, she took a long breath, a rattle echoing in her throat, and then exploded into a harsh single cough that shook her whole body. Blood splattered from her mouth down her saggy hospital gown.

"Mona," I whispered, walking towards the bed. Her weary eyes followed my every move. "It's me. I told you I'd come back, huh?"

One hand, as thin as a claw, reached out and touched the deep gash on my face. "Max," she croaked, her voice as raw as sandpaper. "Max, what…" breaking into a fit of coughing, before ending with, "happened to you?"

Every word was a struggle that she barely succeeded in. The heart monitor beeped an incessant countdown to her death.

"I got the vaccine, Mona," I said, reaching for the briefcase. "I can save you."

"It was AvaMed, wasn't it?" she mumbled, her every word framed in coughs and chokes. "AvaMed were behind it."

"No," I said, opening the briefcase. "West. Senator West."

Her eyes barely registered anything, then grim realisation dawned. "I knew it. They took me to his manor. Injected me with the C-Strain. Said I knew too much. I couldn't make him out, he was just a shadow, but… Mack Luther from AvaMed was there. And that bodyguard of West's."

"Scipio," I replied. "He's dead. So are Luther and Simon Grant."

For the first time something like a smile spread across Mona's withered face. "I knew you could do it, Max. That's why I came to you. When Luther had me in West's basement, he said something about going after your precinct. Said he thought you all knew too much. West said he had Hades on the case. Then he gave me the virus and I passed out.

'I came to in the back of a car in an alleyway somewhere in Brooklyn. All I remember thinking was that I knew the truth about Miasma, and I had to save you. I had to warn you and get you out."

As I reached for the syringe, I felt a wave of hopeless gratitude wash through me so strongly I thought I'd start crying for the first time since Michelle died. She'd come back to save me, knowing she was running out of time. My guardian angel.

"Listen, Mona," I said. "I'm going to save you, do you hear? I've got the last vaccine prototype. I don't know how effective it'll be, but…"

"No!" she cried, so hard that her words were broken off with a fit of coughing so long that she flushed and almost fell out of her bed. "No, Max. I didn't save you from Hades so you could cure me. I did it so that you could end this whole damn crisis. I was the only person in the world, far as I know, who knew about the vaccine. I had to pass on the torch." She giggled, maybe the last time she ever would. "So much for the femme fatale, huh? Seems like I had a heart of gold after all."

I stared at her blankly, incapable of believing what I was hearing. "Mona, no…"

She hushed me.

Instead she reached behind my head with her skinny hands and, with whatever strength she had left, brought my lips to hers. And in those last few seconds the world exploded into brilliant Technicolor fire, blasting away the age and the sickness and the misery, and for just a few seconds I held in my arms the beautiful Mona Sax who I'd met over the corpse of a long dead Mafia hoodlum in the bowels of a forgotten night-club, a thousand years ago. Colour flying through my head, pure ecstasy, pure life, a lifetime flashing through my head and body like white fire.

For those last few seconds, I truly lived.

And then she slumped out of my arms, giving one last guttural cough, blood spilling down her dress.

Dead.

I let her cold, stiff body lie back on the pillows, closed her eyes, and gave her icy cheek a final kiss.

As I reached for the briefcase, a hot tear spilled down my grazed cheek and vanished into the matted wound.

I knew what I had to do. I had something good to die for.

And I knew, on the graves of all the women who had ever meant anything to me, on the graves of all those who lost their lives to Miasma, that I would end it even if that was what it would take.

To be continued…


	7. Chapter Six

**PART THREE: THE LAST STAND**

**_Chapter Six: Biting The Hand That Feeds_**

The doctor's office was on the floor above, a small expensive block, all varnished wood and brass. The name on the door read Dr Neil Fisher. He was in.

As I slid the door shut behind me, I entered a quiet haven from the nightmare outside. Dr Fisher himself glanced up at me with weak, red-rimmed eyes. He was unshaven. His tie hung limp on the seat behind him. Even with the hum of the steel office fan, he was sweating profusely.

Outside a storm was brewing.

"Can I help you?" Dr Fisher asked.

I dropped the briefcase on the desk. "In this case is the prototype for the Miasma vaccine," I said calmly. "It's the only one in the world at the moment, far as I know, and a lot of people have died for it. I need it sent to the Virus Centre tonight."

"The vaccine?" Fisher exclaimed, his eyes lighting up. "Are you sure?"

"There's no time to test," I replied. "Just get it down there. They can produce more. Start experimenting then."

Fisher smiled wearily. "Thank god…" he whispered.

Then he looked up, and his eyes widened, and with a sinking in my stomach I knew what was about to happen.

The office door slammed open. There were three loud gunshots. I ducked and Dr Fisher's body was thrown back in his seat. He cried out briefly, a clot of blood flew up in the air, and then he died, still clutching the briefcase.

"And you were so close," Troy Novak chuckled from behind me. "Stand up, Payne. Don't make this any harder than it has to be."

Hot rage was roaring up through me now, stronger than it ever had been. I was sick of Novak and his shark smile, sick of him escaping into the night, sick of his brilliant New World Order. I turned to face the grinning Federal Agent. He was pointing a silenced pistol at me. Two more goons blocking the door.

"Mr West was very upset about what you did to his house," Novak sneered. "Very upset. Put quite a damper on his little party in the bay. So upset, in fact, that he ordered your termination." Novak slammed back the safety trigger. "Stay still, Payne. It'll only be the failure that hurts."

I reached for my Beretta. I'd taken enough off Novak and his big shark smile.

I leapt forward as he let off a shot and fired a bullet. It whacked home in Novak's leg.

He screamed out. "You bastard!" he cried, turning to his goons. He clutched his leg. Blood was flowing through his black trousers. "Kill him, you idiots!"

The two goons were chaff, nothing. They reached for their guns. I shot the nearest squarely in the face and he slumped back against the wall. The other took a bullet in the gut and slumped down in a heap.

I grabbed the briefcase and ducked out into the corridor.

Towards the end of it, trailing blood like a broken ketchup bottle and shoving nurses and the sick out of his path, was Agent Troy Novak.

I began to run after him, following the streaks of blood down the corridor. A nurse took a glance at me, a lumbering, bloodied black figure with a gun, and threw her files into the air before running off down the corridor. Sick eyes glanced up at me as I turned the corner to the staircase, steadying myself on the wall.

Someone called for security behind me. I started running again.

As I stumbled down the stairs I passed a stunned junior doctor. Without thinking I thrust the briefcase into his hands. "Take it!" I cried. "Get it sent to the Viral Centre! It's the Miasma vaccine!" He stared at me blank for a few seconds, until I cried, "Go, damn it!"

He nodded weakly and ran. I followed the trail of blood.

It led to the exit.

Outside the storm had started. The black clouds had rolled across the thick summer sky, dark and angry. Drops of rain as sharp as knives were hitting the black car park, sending drifts of steam up into the bright white hospital lights.

Rain, I thought with a smile. Rain makes it perfect. A purifying downpour from the heavens themselves, washing away the sin in the dark city.

I turned my attention to Troy Novak. He was climbing into his black Mercedes, a look of utter terror on his usually calm face. I opened fire on him.

Bullets chipped away the paint on the car, sparks flying out into the mist and leaving reflective streaks of fire on the slick black surface. There was a banshee roar as his car came to life and tore out of the car park.

I ran for my stolen car, hotwired the engine into life and followed the flashing red lights of Novak's Merc, riding out of the hospital and on to the rain-soaked freeways of the city. The pounding beats of Queens of the Stone Age throbbed through the car speakers as the city flew past in fast-motion, all flickering white lights and gaudy neon in the summer rain.

Novak was driving like a mad-man, spray from his back tyres trailing behind like the wake of a ship. He swerved around a station wagon at sixty miles an hour as we hit the Brooklyn Expressway, nearly colliding with an oncoming truck. I heard the deafening growl of the truck's horn as the Merc slipped back into the right lane, it's tyres skidding dangerously away beneath it.

I yanked the wheel hard, taking over the station wagon through the left lane, just catching the dull glow of the Merc tail lights as they hurtled unsteadily down the highway towards the glittering city skyline.

Without thinking I wound down the window with one hand, steadying the car with the other, and reached for my gun. One shot, Max. That's all you're getting. One shot.

I leaned one arm out the window, rain slashing cold and hard against my exposed hand, washing away the grit and the blood.

Focussed.

Pulled the trigger.

Novak's back tyre exploded, raining rubber shrapnel on the slick asphalt. As I watched the Merc skidded wildly, doing a full hundred and eighty degree spin, and I caught for just one fleeting second Novak's pale, horrified face as he wrestled with a tonne of out-of-control steel, before the car hit the crash barrier and hurtled down a short gravel banking to the road below.

I pulled over carefully on the side of the highway and stepped out of the car, letting the rain wash away the cold sweat. For the first time my mind was clear, everything focussed to a razor point.

I climbed over the crash barrier, my eyes following the trail of devastation wreaked by the Merc's final journey. The crash barrier hung out like a broken jaw, two jagged edges hanging over the sheer drop. The Merc had crashed down the gravel banking, leaving a large trench in the mud. Small trees had been crushed by its path to the road, where it now lay in a heap of steel wreckage, smoke rising from its crumpled engine like the fires of hell were boiling within it.

Carefully keeping an eye on my footing, I hopped down the muddy banking, holding on to those trees still standing, and came to rest on the road below.

Troy Novak had forced the door of the Merc open and now sat in the pavement. He was a mess. The rain had soaked his suit through. The impact had left a deep gash on his forehead and his leg jutted out at an unpleasant angle, blood welling in the crack. He rested against the open door and gazed up at me hopelessly.

"Well, then, Payne," he choked. "Looks like you've won this one, huh?"

I pulled my Beretta on him. "Shut up," I balked. "And I might even make this quick."

"It's futile," he chuckled, and I knew right then there was a part of him that I could never break. He'd gone a little insane, but it was keeping him going somehow. "You can't win, Max. It's too late to stop the virus. You have no idea how powerful West is. You can't touch him."

"We'll see," I replied calmly, releasing the safety. "Shame you'll never know."

"Then," he said, grinning at me madly. "Should I be making my last requests now? Are you going to tell me that you're doing this for Bravura and all those other poor bastards who didn't know what toes they'd gone and stepped on? For poor Dr Fisher? For Sax?"

"No," I said. "For me."

I pulled the trigger three times. Novak barely flinched. His chest gave one last heave before slumping forward in the driving rain. As I watched raindrops swelled in his cold, dead eyes, and I knew it was over.

Above us the night watched on with cold, uncaring eyes, breaks in the eternal black clouds above.

Then, one more trip, I thought. To end it all. One more voyage into hell, one last stand.

I returned to the car as the rain washed away Novak's blood until there was barely a sign he had ever existed.

To be continued…


	8. Chapter Seven

**PART THREE: THE LAST STAND**

**_Chapter Seven: The Rapture_**

I pulled the car up on a slow rise above the harbour. Down below, like a glowing white showboat from heaven, was West's private yacht, glittering on the black waves. The Rapture, laden with New York's rich, powerful and righteous. Waiting for dawn and the end of the world as we know it.

I'd spent the last hour in a twenty-four hour diner, downing cold cups of oily coffee, getting myself sharp. Getting focussed.

The fuzzy television that hung over the greasy counter, a grey screen only half-watched by the other two customers – truckers, looked like, and an aged waitress – broadcast NYNN News, telling me all the stuff I already knew. Simon Grant and a few others had been slain in a shooting in their own building, seemingly motiveless. Shots had been fired at a downtown hospital. Fire had gutted Senator West's stately suburban home – a few casualties. Cases of miasma had gone up over the course of the night. Pushed right to the back was the old news of the deaths of Jim Bravura and the rest of the precinct. And at the end, a short piece on the celebrity-laden party taking place in the bay. Something I didn't know.

I'd crushed out my cigarette, downed the rest of my coffee and headed for the car, a thousand thoughts rushing through my head.

This was it. The more I thought about it, the more I figured my whole life had been leading up to this moment. That all the rest, the nightmare that had taken over my life since I found Michelle dead, was just training, just a precursor, a build. This wasn't some mafia chief or shady corporate honcho I was about to kill.

This was the man who would be President.

In the Beretta that sat on the dashboard was the bullet that would change history forever. I'd be infamous. Right up there with Lee Harvey Oswald, Sirrah Sirrah, John Wilkes Booth. It'd destroy the path of history, send ripples through America and the world. And it would be the end for me. There could be no more running now.

I had no regrets. One time to put paid to all.

And now I stood, the harbour below me, West sat in his lair, surrounded by a small squadron of goons. Waiting for me.

I yanked back the safety on my gun and began to walk down the hill.

West's private pier sat behind a small roadblock. Two security guards were stood around it, smoking, chewing the fat. Just chaff, I thought grimly. Dispatch them and get moving.

"Hey," one said as I approached. "Sorry, dude, this place is off-limits." As I approached him, he attempted to block me off. "Listen, buddy, you on goofballs or something? I said…"

I shot him twice in the chest, two blasts of hot fire rupturing his guts and sending him slumping to the ground. His colleague barely had a chance to register what had happened before I terminated his existence with a bullet to the head.

Just chaff, I thought bitterly. Just chaff.

I hopped over the road barrier and walked along the pier, probably friendly and inviting in the daytime, with its quaint old steamers and hordes of Japanese tourists. But on a night like this it looked dark and intimidating, and the river slurped against the harbour wall like a slumbering beast. Inviting me in with its armies of the dead and forgotten.

I shook away those thoughts. All I had to fear was directly in front of me, on the deck of the Rapture. The boat sat at the end of the pier, a few goons waiting around outside. Probably heavily armed.

This is it, Payne. Better get sharp.

There was a flash of a red light, the green glow of night vision from the other end of the pier. Cries out.

Suddenly a fireball was rushing towards me like ball lightning.

I leapt to the side as the oil drums I'd been waiting behind exploded, hurtling rusty steel high into the air and flaming nets out over the river. Fire roared high above my head, heat so hot it singed my hair. And there were footsteps, moving towards me. The sound of guns being loaded, safety catches released. Heavy duty stuff.

They were barely visible when the first volley of bullets rushed past my head, leaving puffs of dirt in the gravel. A shot caught me in the shoulder, knocking me backwards, spraying blood high up into the air. I winced. Ignore it.

Reached for my Beretta.

As I rolled out the way, another bullet punched a hole through a stray end of jacket, leaving a smoking hole and, miraculously, nothing but a flesh wound. I winced and began to return fire.

A goon nearby fell to the ground, clutching his knee. The others opened fire again, bullets whacking through the ground and the flames. Someone shouting "There!"

Blood oozed out of my shoulder wound and down my chest. I winced and choked back a few of the painkillers I'd managed to acquire from the hospital. Then began to return fire.

Another goon took a shot to the chest and fell back, then carried on moving, a little slower. Body armour, I thought hopelessly. Kevlar.

I rolled out from behind the flaming wreckage and began to shoot at the advancing goons. Down the other end of the bay a number of ship-hands were casting away the Rapture and it was slowly drifting away. Making a getaway.

I was running out of time.

I opened fire, slamming hard on the trigger, aiming for heads. The nearest exploded in red mist and the goon slumped to the side. Another took a bullet in the throat, fell to the ground and died. A third ducked out of the way, took a bullet to the gut and stumbled helplessly over the edge, into the churning black waters of the Hudson.

I stood up, continuing to fire, taking down all in my path. A goon fell to the ground as a volley of bullets punctured his armour, flailing like an eel before lying still. Another screamed as his ear was blown away and fell on his knees, clutching at his bleeding stump. I pumped another bullet into his gut and he fell dead.

Finally, the goon with the rocket launcher stood near the drifting boat. He slammed the hefty steel cannon hard against his shoulder. Night-vision, flashing green, flickered across the black churning waters. I leapt forward, opening fire.

He slammed hard on the trigger.

A wall of heat rushed past my head, singeing my hair and leaving my jacket smoking. I hit the floor, shooting hard. Behind me the sky lit up and flames roared high into the sky, hurtling debris and nets out into the water with flames trailing behind.

The goon took a volley of shots to the chest and slumped down dead, the rocket launcher unspectacularly hitting the ground with him.

Behind him the boat was drifting from the pier edge. I broke into a run, reached the edge of the pier wall, leapt out into darkness with the lights just inches away… and then I was falling, tumbling into the waters below.

To be continued…


	9. Chapter Eight

**PART THREE: THE LAST STAND**

**_Chapter Eight: The Great and the Good_**

I fell, tumbling down into the surf of the Hudson river, bright white lights filling my eyes. Reached out. Grabbed the edge of the deck with aching fingertips, rubbed raw with flicks of salty foam. Hoisted myself up and over the bar, on to the Rapture and on to West's ship as it lumbered out into the early dawn light.

A single bodyguard in a suit stood on the edge of the deck, watching in horror as I leapt on to the slippery deck. I didn't give him a chance to respond. Three bullets. He rolled around and hit the slippery deck hard.

I frisked his still warm corpse, removing a silent pistol. Best to play it quiet till I got near West. Only way to play it.

On the PA system West was silencing the crowd with an angry burst of static, sounding distant from down on the lower deck. Then his voice burst out across the ship – loud, booming, chillingly familiar, like stepping into a TV show.

"My friends!" West declared. "Citizens of New York! Politicians! The famous! The great and the good of this city! Welcome aboard my yacht, the Rapture."

A distant ripple of polite applause.

I slunk up a small white staircase leading to the upper deck, spray licking at my battered shoes as it rolled over the lower. There was a bodyguard at the top, looking out over the river. Armed with a semi-automatic.

"Doubtless we have all enjoyed the wealth of entertainment tonight," West continued. "I'd like to thank the Larry Hoover Jazz Ensemble, Michael Julian Benedict, the Choir of the Lower East Side, and all the others who have delighted us with their musical skill over the course of the evening."

More applause.

I shot once, aiming for the heart. A clot of blood flew up into the air, hit the deck hard. As the guard went to cry out, I fired again, this time aiming for the face, and he fell down hard.

"Yet now, it is my great honour to introduce the main agenda of tonight's gathering. We have all revelled tonight. Enjoyed the company of others…"

I bent down, hooked my arms around the goon's body, and lifted him up, pushing him over the side. He tumbled down, deep into the churning waters below, leaving nothing but a watery blood streak on the alabaster white deck. I turned around, pushed myself up against the bridge, and began to sneak forward.

"But we all have a purpose. We all have a goal to achieve. Tonight, we are standing on the brink of something truly marvellous…"

There was a bodyguard standing on top of the bridge, donning a neat black suit and shades. He had a cigarette wedged between his teeth, and was holding a semi-automatic. Another round the front of the ship, just visible. Taking them both down quietly could be tough – especially if there were more around.

"Tonight the world will wake up in horror as its darkest cities descend into chaos. What we have seen with the Miasma virus so far is only the beginning. Today we will see the true extent of the virus we have all invested in…"

I winced. All invested in? All these people had a hand in Miasma, guided by their loving shepherd the Senator? It was all too much like a nightmare. Too out of control. All those smiling faces on the cover of the magazines, all those smirking millionaires, those corporate behemoths… they had a hand in this nightmare?

It made me freeze up against the wall.

Above me the bodyguard looked around, scything out the area. Glancing down at me.

He flinched.

"New York. Los Angeles. Chicago. Atlanta. And beyond. The Sodom's and Gomorrah's of the modern world. All will fall into darkness, all will realise the price of their drift from God. Today his wrath will be unleashed upon the world for all to see. For all to bow down and respect him…"

The goon gasped, reached for his semi-automatic. I shot upwards.

A bullet flew through his lower jaw and out the top of his head. He cried out briefly and then fell over the railing, sliding down the bridge and hitting the deck near me hard, in a splatter of blood like a tomato.

"Tonight we will see God's wrath unleashed upon the sinners in a way not seen since Noah's flood. Tonight we will see the start of the Rapture. And it will begin here…"

The goon round the front of the bridge adjusted his shades, turned around and began to walk along the edge of the deck.

Towards me. Towards his dead comrade.

"Then, when this sinful, decrepit world has fallen, we will start afresh. We will salvage the remnants of the old, and we will cleanse them. We will purify this world once more!"

A roar of applause filled the yacht.

The goon was reaching for his gun and, worse, a radio receiver.

I was running out of options. Down to one, and it would throw the whole operation out of the window if it went wrong.

Wincing, I fired a single shot upwards.

And then watched as his head exploded, and as his limp body fell over the side, and tumbled deep into the horrified mass of people.

And realised that the game was up…

To be continued…


	10. Chapter Nine

**PART THREE: THE LAST STAND**

**_Chapter Nine: The Last Stand_**

Hundreds of heads turned, hundreds of mouths hung open, a sea of stunned 0's, gazing up in horror at me - some bat beast from a bad dream, standing on the edge of the bridge clutching the smoking gun.

I followed the wave of horror as it spread along the whole deck, mouths opening, hands backing away, until it reached Senator West, standing resplendent in an immaculate black suit on the podium. When it reached West, all horror was replaced by nothing but bitter rage and frustration.

As he yelled at a bodyguard to do something, the ship below descended into wild chaos. I caught brief glimpses of familiar faces – the chief of the NYPD, a famous actor, a famous model that had graced the front cover of magazines just a few weeks ago, high ranking members of government. All were falling backwards out of their chairs, spinning round and stampeding for the edge of the boat.

No more time. Nothing left for it but to get inside, make one last stand. Before taking down West.

I leapt down on to the deck as West's goons ran forward, shoving past the wild guests as they fled to the lifeboats. A hefty goon in a suit fired three shots, all of them ripping through a beautiful blonde lady in a red dress who I recognised as a popular local writer. She slumped dead to the deck, her husband taking one last look before fleeing with the rest.

I reached for my Beretta. No need to play it quiet anymore.

I opened fire on the goon who had killed the writer, and a bullet took off the top of his head, sending him to the ground. I spun round, leaping behind a table, opening fire on another bodyguard. A bullet punctured a hole in his neat white shirt and he fell backwards, into a set of tables, one hand yanking the cloth down like a shroud over his limp corpse.

As I hit the floor, a blast sent my shoulder flying backwards, knocking the socket of my arm out of place. My gun fell out of my hand, skittering along the surface of the deck, as hot blood rushed down to my wrist.

Damn, I thought. Hit a vein, maybe.

Bullets were rushing past my face now, hundreds of them. Goons were piling on to the deck from all directions, firing indiscriminately in a bid to hit me. The famous model took a bullet to the ankle and collapsed screaming to the ground. Another hit a renowned corporate head in the face and his body slumped over the side.

I stood up, reaching for the silenced pistol with my working arm, and responded with gunfire. Two goons were killed instantly, their bodies hurtling down into tables and chairs. One yanked down a candle and the cloth around burst into flames.

I opened fire on a bodyguard sneaking up on the side. As he fell, his fresh corpse hitting the steel bars, another bullet ripped through my lower chest.

I winced. My good arm slipped into my inner pocket, clutching the painkillers and swallowing them back. Never mind, I thought. All that's left is to kill West, and once that's done I can let it end. I'll die pretty happy if I know I can achieve that. Keep going now, Max. Finish this.

I turned around. Three guards were scaling down the bridge, all heavily armed. I leapt for the shelter of an upturned table and began to shoot. A bullet shattered the shins of the nearest guard, sending him tumbling down the steps in a screaming pile. Two shots went wide of another goon, and he responded with two bullets.

One grazed against my hand, sending a trickle of blood to the deck.

Rage rushed through me and I fired back relentlessly. His body jittered wildly before he hit the deck, little more than a smoking mess.

As the final goon drew closer, guns at the ready, my focus began to slip. My head was spinning, getting hazy. Doubling over.

Come on, Payne, I thought bitterly. Pull yourself together. Focus.

Squinting through tears of pain, through giddy haziness, I shot the goon in the chest, blowing his guts out of his back. A look of utter horror spread across his face and he bent double, crying out in agony.

Behind me the onslaught continued. No chance now but to push them back.

I stood up, bullets ricocheting off the back of the table I'd been sheltering behind, and began to shoot back. My head was growing giddy. Behind the bow of the ship New York lay spread out in the hazy, milky dawn light, the first rays of sunlight bouncing off the walls of glittering glass and steel. And there, before it, yelling at his bodyguards as around him everything fell apart, was Senator West.

I shot the nearest goon dead and slipped out from behind the table, creeping forward on legs like jelly. Down the ends of the boat the audience were launching off the lifeboats, all of them gathering in a clot at the exit, desperately wishing to escape. Bullets flew round their heads. Women screamed.

I opened fire on another guard nearby, who was reaching for extra ammunition when the bullets ripped through his chest. Blood flew up into the dawn air, a thick black streak, and he rolled to the ground.

I was fighting on instinct now, firing at any goons near me, aiming wildly for black suits. My head was spinning sickly. Blood was streaming and pouring down my wrist, splattering in large puddles on the floor, making my grip slippery. I ignored it.

West was up on the stage. I could just about hear his voice.

"He's just a man!" he yelled. "He can be killed! So kill him! For god's sake!"

I fired at the goon. The bullets tore through his back and he collapsed forward, landing on a light. The light collapsed forward, shattering on the podium and bursting wildly into flames.

West flinched, stared weakly at me as I advanced.

His goons were dead, wounded or fleeing. Flames were consuming his stage, rolling up his banners, swallowing up his speeches. It hit hard, dawning in his eyes as bright as the sunlight that crept across the eastern horizon beyond.

It was over.

To be continued…


	11. Chapter Ten

**PART THREE: THE LAST STAND**

**_Chapter Ten: All Good Things_**

I'd waited a long time for this.

And now I stood on the deck of the stricken Rapture, its deck slicked with corpses and flame and rubble. A gun clenched in my hand. And Senator West, the most powerful man in New York city, standing in front of me.

No regrets. I had little time left.

I raised my gun.

"Is that it, then?" the Senator said, backing away from the podium. Behind him a hunk of stage collapsed into the flames. Smoke plumed high into the dawn air. "You're going to kill me, just like that?"

I sneered. "That's right, Senator," I said. "It's over. All of it. The medical services have the vaccine. It'll be in mass production by dawn. Your apocalypse isn't going to happen." I released the safety on the gun. "And you're the only loose end left."

"Oh, don't be a fool, Max!" West screamed, backing off. "This is not some trivial human game we are playing here! This is the will of God! And you, one man, can not stand in its path!"

"Watch me," I said, and shot the Senator.

He screamed as the bullet punched a hole in his ankle. Blood trickled down around him.

"Damn you, Payne!" he cried, and turned to run.

I leapt on to the stage and gave pursuit.

He ran towards the bow of the ship, the city spread out before us, the murky Hudson glittering brightly in the hazy summer dawn. Blood trickled in small droplets from his stricken ankle, each about the size of a dime. As he stumbled to the edge of the ship, he cried out – insane ramblings, nothings.

"The city will fall!" he screamed. "Sodom and Gomorrah! All going to fall!"

He reached into his jacket and whipped out an ancient revolver. Three shots, fired one handed, hurtled past my head. Then West was running in his gormless, stumbling way, running to the edge of the ship with the blood leaking out of his leg.

Finally he fell against the railing along the bow, its point a jagged finger against the shimmering glass of the city. With desperate eyes he looked up at me as I slowly advanced, my head swimming, my gun raised.

"Over, Payne!" he continued. "All over!"

"That's right," I said calmly. "It is."

"You think you can stop the hand of God, you demon? You think this is your victory?"

"No." I released the safety. "Not my victory. But if by doing this I can save enough lives to make up for those I've taken, then to hell with everything else. This isn't victory, Senator. This is redemption."

He chuckled madly, and it degenerated into wild laughter. "Redemption? Don't make me laugh, Payne." A wild, mad grin spread across West's face. "You think this is some personal vendetta? Some mission you charged yourself with?"

I raised the gun, daring him to continue.

The grin didn't fade. Instead it took on a victorious air. "You've been led every step of the way, Payne. You're a pawn. Nothing but a small player in a game you don't understand."

"What?" I balked.

"Who do you think tipped off Sax about the Miasma base, huh? Why do you think you were discharged early from work on the day Hades took your men out?"

I stared at him blankly. "Just what are you saying?"

"It was Grant!" he cried. "Simon Grant! He tipped off Mona about the Miasma base. He wanted to lead Sax to me. To take care of me, so that his own little scheme could be carried off… the prevention of the reformation of the Inner Circle!"

"I'm taking it that was your plan," I said. "All this religious crap was a cover-up."

"No, Payne," the Senator said, shaking his head. "The Inner Circle has always worked to do God's work. To keep the faith deep within government. Over recent years it has drifted from God, its leaders tempted by greed and dark temptations. This great act would set it back on its true path." He swung one arm around in an arc, taking in the empty ship. "These people, the good people of New York… all of them were set to join me in the new Inner Circle. An Inner Circle that would control our new world and set it back on to the path of righteousness."

"Sure," I said, shaking my head. "Guess all good things come to an end, huh?"

"Grant was a former member of the Circle," West continued, barely hearing me. "He knew what I was planning. He agreed to aid me in the reformation, but when he understood my plans, his greed took over him. He hired Sax, through an agent of his, to corrupt my scheme, to put an end to it. Just as well I had Mack Luther on my side to take care of her."

I'd heard enough. "She wanted to do the right thing…"

"You're kidding yourself," the Senator laughed. "She was a stone fox, right up until the end. A cold killer, being led up front." And before I could respond, he'd whipped out his revolver. "And now, Mr Payne, it is time for you to die."

He fired a single shot.

It blasted through my chest. I cried out and fell to my knees, clutching at my heart. Hot blood curdled at the back of my throat. My head pounded, vision grew cloudy.

"You're wrong," I murmured. "Wrong about Sax."

West was laughing again, and raising the gun again. "Sax had it coming, Max, and you know it as well as I!"

I whipped out my gun with what was left of my strength. I opened fire, three shots, all fired through blurry vision, but my whole soul poured into every one – everything I'd ever fought for, all the hate, all the rage, focussed into one bullet.

West's gun flew out of his hand and he fell backwards, blood flying up into the crisp morning air. He tilted over the banister and vanished out of sight.

I pushed myself to my feet, staggered forward. Blood was running merrily down my chest, hot and sticky. If I didn't get a tourniquet on those wounds soon, it would all be over. It no longer mattered.

I stood over the railing, and stared down into the desperate eyes of Senator West.

He clutched on to the edge of the ship by damp, blood-slicked fingertips, the boat cutting through the churning foam below. I gently stepped up to the railing, and aimed my gun at him.

"Wait, Payne!" he cried. "Please! Dear God, Payne, stop!"

I calmly released the safety.

"Listen!" he screamed. "I can offer you anything! I can make all the charges go away! You can escape, a free man! Anything, Payne! Anything but this!"

"There's nothing you can give me that you haven't taken away," I sneered.

I pulled the trigger.

West's fingers were blown to red mist, and he tumbled screaming into the churning waves.

I fell backwards, to the deck. Couldn't have watched if I'd wanted to. Too weak. But the screaming went on for a long, long time, as West was dragged under the waves and into the ship's propellers.

I let my head fall back, felt the heat of the dawn on my face. Before me New York glittered in the sun, like a fresh jewel.

I reached for my shirt and ripped off a strip.


	12. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

_California, Three Weeks Later_

His name was Miguel de Santiago, and he had worked the gas station off US 5 for nearly a decade. Since he'd emigrated from Mexico back in the eighties, he'd found himself whiling away his huge amount of free time flicking through the American papers – simultaneously picking up the language and following the country's news.

He'd been deep into an article in the New York Times regarding the tumultuous events of the past few weeks, when a battered red open-top Cadillac had pulled up at the station.

The man behind the wheel stared at him blankly with steely eyes and calmly said, "Fill her up, please."

Miguel nodded. He tended not to judge his clients. Out here in the desert it was best not to wonder too much about who pulled up on the dusty, cracked tarmac. But there was something about this man that sent a chill down his spine. He knew a killer when he saw one, and this man was a killer. Skinny, his flesh seared red by an inexperience of the desert sun, malnourished and scarred, but a dangerous man none the less. He looked like he'd been to the other side, and he'd lost something out there.

But maybe he'd gained something, too.

He began to fill up the Caddy's tank.

Lately he'd been reading about the events that had taken over New York and the surrounding area – the assassination of an important politician had led to a huge scandal that had probably cost the President his re-election. The rumours had it that the politician had been involved in the cover-up of a botched chemical weapons outbreak, a factory malfunction that had led to the Miasma crisis. Shortly after the Senator's death the American Medical Association had released a vaccine for the virus, and the escalation had ended. Now the crisis had been deemed over, but the scandal was just beginning.

Miguel himself was unaware that he was a distant relation to a young woman named Maria Escobar, who had been the first victim of the virus that had caused this trouble. He would never know just how close he was connected to that long dead girl from the other side of the country on that morning, filling up a stranger's tank.

"There, senor," he said with a smile. "Five-fifty, please."

With barely a glance the man handed over a few notes. As he did it, Miguel noticed for the first time the distinctive crescent scar on his right cheek.

He choked, shuddered and finally mumbled, "Gracias."

The man drove off along the shimmering highway and out of Miguel's life forever.

He wondered if he'd checked the meter again.

_One Year Later_

It was a soft summer's day, not as sweltering as last year's summer, but pleasant.

The graveyard twittered brightly with life – birdsong, insects, the gentle rustle of the hot breeze in the crisp, dewy green grass. I stood over a slightly crumbled, tarnished stone, and the weight of all those years that had passed since I'd stood here once before on a grim, overcast day, a hundred years ago, hit me hard.

My fingers skittered over the soft, worn marble surface of the gravestone, over the gold-engraved letters reading MICHELLE PAYNE.

I did it, honey, I thought as my fingers brushed against the icy cold. I did it.

I'd almost forgotten the events of a year ago – that fateful night when I left New York. All except in the darkest depths of the night, when I'd wake up in a cold sweat, choking back the screams. It had been another life – and the man responsible was dead and forgotten.

It was all a blur, after the police helicopter picked me up off the Rapture, just minutes away from death. They'd rushed me to a prison helicopter, gave me a few weeks surgery. Don't remember much of that, but they fixed me up as well as they could. I remember the bright lights, the voices. An old doctor saying it was a miracle I was still alive.

And then, one day, just as I was coming round, two men in black and white suits, telling me that if I gave them a little information I'd be set free. They were FBI agents, close associates of the late Troy Novak. They were eager to clean what was left of Novak's mess up with little trouble, and to convict a few high-class members of West's conspiracy. They knew I had information in my head that could seal the deal. I'd been on the Rapture that night. I'd seen the great and the good of New York get in on the act.

I played along. I didn't want to. I wanted to get away from New York and away from all the killing and chaos. I wanted to get away from Max Payne.

I signed the forms. I got their convictions.

I was snuck out of the city one night, put on a Greyhound bus and told that a Hertz dealership had a Caddy waiting for me down in Boston. I was urged to get as far away from the city as possible, that their Californian branch could sort me out with a civilian job, a new identity.

And then it was all forgotten, the old life a dream I was rapidly forgetting.

I had just one last loose end to tie up before saying goodbye to Max Payne for ever.

I gently laid the lilies down in front of the grave. A breeze rustled through their white petals, a single pale shaving blowing away, floating gently across the still silence of the graveyard.

With a small shard of stone, I gently scraped two words into the grave, and then laid down my empty Beretta.

The words were MAX PAYNE.

I stood up, stared up at the sky. The sun was coming through the clouds, white beams kissing the vivid green lawn.

Redemption, I thought, and I smiled.

I walked out of the graveyard and back to the car.

The End

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks for reading the story up until this point. In response to Darth Red's earlier review, a lot of the chapter titles, particularly in this part, were taken or inspired by music I was listening to at the time and seemed appropriate. I may do another Max Payne story again in the near future, hopefully soon. Until then, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it.**


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